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Rabbi Mendy's Blog

A weekly exploration into the Torah's lessons for life

Not all leaders are the same, choose yours wisely

Baruch Hashem, no missiles are raining down on Israel, and Iran's nuclear program has been largely destroyed; we have much to thank G-d for. With so much good in our lives, why do we often find ourselves focusing on the negative? Why are we seemingly blind to the many blessings G-d bestows upon us, even when undeserved? 

The answer lies in this week's Torah portion, Korach, where we learn about leadership. The Torah tells us the story of a dramatic rebellion against Moshe Rabbeinu's leadership. Korach, a prominent figure in the Israelite community, challenges Moshe and Aharon's authority, claiming, "The entire congregation is holy, and Hashem is among them—why do you raise yourselves above the people of G-d?" On the surface, Korach's argument seems democratic—even righteous. But the Torah reveals the truth: Korach wasn't driven by concern for others but by ego and ambition. He didn't want to lift others; he tried to pull Moshe down.

Real leadership, as the Torah shows us, is not about position or power. It's about responsibility, humility, and a deep love for the people you serve. Moshe didn't seek leadership; he was chosen by Hashem. And once chosen, he gave his life for the people, even praying for those who sinned against him. That is the mark of a true leader: someone who puts the mission and the people before themselves.

As we mark Gimmel Tammuz, the anniversary of passing of the Rebbe, this theme of authentic leadership comes into sharp focus. The Rebbe, like Moshe Rabbeinu, never sought followers or fame. He didn't campaign for power. He simplyanswered the call of responsibility—guiding a generation with vision, wisdom, and boundless love.

The Rebbe's leadership wasn't only seen in his monumental initiatives, the thousands of Chabad centers, the revolutionary outreach, or his prophetic insight into global events. It was most clearly seen in his care for every individual. To the Rebbe, leadership wasn't about being above others—it was about seeing them.

One story that captures this beautifully: A woman once stood in line for dollars—the Sunday tradition where thousands would wait to receive a dollar and a blessing from the Rebbe. When her turn came, she broke down in tears, sharing that she was overwhelmed by personal struggles and felt utterly invisible. The Rebbe looked at her with gentle eyes and said, "To me, you are the entire world."

In that moment, the Rebbe didn't just comfort her—he restored her dignity. He reminded her that she mattered. That's leadership. Not claiming superiority but uplifting another. Not seeking followers but seeing souls.

As we reflect on Gimmel Tammuz, let us recommit ourselves to the Rebbe's vision: to lead not with ego but with empathy. To serve others, not ourselves. And to bring light to the world—one mitzvah, one moment, and one person at a time.

May we merit to see be reunited with our loved ones and Rebbe and return to our homeland Israel in peace and prosperity, with the coming of Moshiach, speedily in our days.

I'm afraid what should I do

Fear can be paralyzing. No matter our intellect, talent, or strength, fear can often stop us in our tracks, preventing us from moving forward on our journey. How do we face this truth and move past it when so much of the world seems stacked against us? How do we quiet the fear inside of us so we can proudly and boldly continue illuminating the world as we're designed to do? 

The answer lies in this week's Torah portion, Shelach, where we learn one of the most tragic stories in the Torah: the sin of the spies. Twelve leaders were sent to scout the Land of Israel, but only ten of them returned with a fear-filled report. Despite witnessing miracles in Egypt, such as the splitting of the sea and receiving daily sustenance from Heaven, these men allowed fear to cloud their judgment. "We cannot go up," they cried, "for they are stronger than we." Their fear led to national despair, and that moment changed the course of Jewish history for an entire generation.

Fear isn't just an emotion; it's a lens that can distort reality. The spies weren't lying; they were interpreting what they saw through a lens of self-doubt, insecurity, and dread. Their fear made them forget Hashem's promise. It made them forget their mission. It made them forget who they were.

Today, we find ourselves facing a different kind of battle—but the challenge of fear is no less real. Since October 7th, Israel has been thrust into a painful and critical conflict. The Jewish people are standing up to defend themselves, to destroy evil, and to restore safety to their homeland and dignity to our nation. And just like in the desert, voices of fear creep in—fear of international opinion, fear of making mistakes, fear of standing alone. Now, we are confronting the evil menace to the east, and missiles are raining down on our Mishpacha; it's normal to be afraid. 

But the lesson is clear: fear can paralyze us from fulfilling our destiny. The Jewish people are not just fighting a political battle—they are fighting a moral one. They are removing evil from the world, defending innocent lives, and standing up for truth. In moments like this, we cannot afford to be swayed by fear of what the world will say. We cannot be intimidated into silence or retreat. Like Yehoshua and Calev, the two spies who remained faithful, we must say with conviction: "The Land is very, very good… Hashem is with us. Do not fear."

Now is the time for unity. The Jewish people must stand strong and stand together. We must believe in our mission, in our purpose, and in Hashem's promise. The world needs the light we bring, and that light shines brightest when we are fearless, proud, and united.

Let us not repeat the mistake of the spies. Let us move forward with courage, faith, and strength., and we will all merit to be reunited with our promised land of Israel in true peace and the coming of Moshiach, amen!

You might feel far away, but it's like you never left

We find ourselves glued to the news, waiting with bated breath, hoping and praying for military success and the obliteration of the Iranian regime whose stated principle is the destruction of Israel and annihilation of our people. But we find ourselves thousands of miles away; what can we do to help? 

The answer lies in this week's Torah portion Behaaloscha. There, we learn about the Mitzvah of "Second Passover." A year after the Exodus from Egypt, Moses is confronted by a group of people who missed the opportunity to bring the Passover sacrifice on Passover evening. They lament their misfortune and ask for a second chance to get this once-a-year offering. Moshe, in turn, asks Hashem and is introduced to a new tradition, known as the "second Passover," to be held thirty days after the first one, on which anyone who missed bringing the sacrifice is afforded a second chance. 

A closer examination of the dialogue reveals that G-d's response extended beyond Moshe's request. Moses asked for a second chance for ritually impure people, a condition often due to no fault of his own. Understandably, these people might deserve another crack at this Mitzvah. But G-d extends the opportunity to those who took a trip away from the camp and, with poor planning, missed Passover. You might think these people were far away and therefore forfeited the chance to support their people and experience Passover at the Temple. You'd be wrong. Though you may have been far physically, you are and always will be inextricably connected to your people, so here's a second chance to reconnect with them. 

For many of us, we love Israel but can often feel disconnected from what is transpiring halfway around the globe. Perhaps in the past, we neglected to fully support our homeland. No matter what our previous behaviors, even if we allowed ourselves to become far emotionally and intellectually from Israel, we are still united with each other and with our homeland. Today, we are being given a second chance to show our love for our Holyland by doing an extra Mitzvah, saying a prayer, and advocating for our brothers and sisters. Now, we have a second chance to be strong, proud, and bright as we redouble our efforts to banish darkness and illuminate our world. 

G-d is telling us that distance doesn't matter; no matter how far you've been, it's time for you to come back home. Your people and your homeland need you now. We're one; together, we will overcome this evil just as we've done so many times before.

It's not everyone's G-d, it's MY G-d

One of our challenges today is making religion feel relevant and personally meaningful. It's easy to see Torah and mitzvot as distant, rigid rules or ancient customs meant for people in a very different time. Sometimes, it can feel like we're just going through the motions, doing things because we're supposed to rather than because we truly feel connected. 

 The answer to this dilemma lies at the heart of Judaism and is something profoundly personal: I need to have a relationship with my G-d.

Not just "G-d," in an abstract or general sense, but my G-d - who created me, knows me, loves me, and wants to have a relationship with me. This shift in perspective changes everything. It's no longer about checking boxes or fitting into a mold. It's about building a connection and nurturing a bond that is unique and alive. Like any relationship, it takes effort, communication, and presence, but it's also deeply rewarding and real.

This idea is powerfully reflected in this week's Torah portion Naso, in the Priestly Blessing: "Yevarechecha Hashem v'yishmerecha..." – "May Hashem bless you and guard you..." "Ya'er Hashem panav eilecha..." – "May Hashem shine His face toward you..." "Yisa Hashem panav eilecha v'yasem lecha shalom." – "May Hashem lift His face to you and grant you peace."

Notice how the blessing is phrased in the singular you, not you all. It's intimate and individual. G-d isn't blessing the Jewish people as a collective at this moment; He's turning to each one of us personally. When we realize this, religion stops being something we have to do and starts becoming something we're honored to do. It becomes a relationship that empowers, comforts, and guides us. Torah and mitzvot become the language of love between us and G-d—not a burden, but a bridge. 

So the next time you feel like G-d or Judaism is far away, remember the Priestly Blessing. It's not just a beautiful set of words—it's a message from your Creator, saying: I see you. I bless you. I'm here for you. Now it's time for us to respond and say thank you, Hashem; I love you too! 

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